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This should be a stupid question, given we’re discussing a position at the Hunt Corporation – a place many would give their right arm to work for. But we’re also talking about me being in close proximity to this divine, albeit infuriating, man on a daily basis. ‘Yes,’ I answer without much thought, because it really doesn’t take much thought. I don’t even know what the salary is, or any of the package details.
‘Then it’s yours.’ He turns and walks away, just as Mrs Potts comes flying through the door. Her alarmed face takes in my flustered form, before she turns to Becker Hunt. I follow her line of sight, finding him resting his hands in his trouser pockets, relaxed in his standing pose. He’s exuding cockiness. And masculinity. And sex.
‘Afternoon, Dorothy,’ he says cheerfully.
‘You promised to let me handle this,’ she seethes, clearly not afraid to unleash her temper on her boss. ‘Becker Hunt, you infuriate me.’
I’m stunned at the anger rolling off Mrs Potts.
‘Calm your britches,’ Becker huffs, his long legs eating up the distance between them. He pauses next to a riled Mrs Potts, but he doesn’t look at her. ‘Don’t worry’ – he sniffs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, exuding coolness as he rolls his broad shoulders – ‘I haven’t bitten her.’ I’m treated to his perfect profile as he turns his eyes down on to the short, old lady. ‘Yet,’ he adds, before crossing the threshold and disappearing down the corridor. ‘She starts tomorrow.’
I gasp.
Mrs Potts gasps.
Yet?
Oh . . . shit.
‘Well,’ Mrs Potts fumes, slamming the door behind him. I watch her faff with her string of pearls, getting all worked up. ‘Damn man is a rogue.’
I feel I should calm her fussing hands that are now frantically dusting down her front, but I’m still pretty useless. ‘Are you okay?’ I manage to say, before realising my fingers are clawed into the arms of the chair. I release them and flex, allowing the blood to circulate again.
‘I’m sorry, Eleanor.’ She shakes her head in despair and makes her way over to me. I can’t help but smile when she offers me her wrinkled old hand, like she suspects I need help to my feet after what I’ve just encountered. She’s right. My legs feel like jelly.
‘Difficult?’ I ask as I take her offering and stand, pulling my skirt down as I do.
She almost laughs, but I can tell that her fizzing anger prevents it. Taking a deep breath, she sighs. ‘He just can’t help himself.’ She opens the door and gestures for me to exit, which I do on a nervous smile, wondering if I’m going to be given any more than that. I know I can’t ask. It isn’t my place. ‘This way, dear.’
We pass the curved staircase again, and my damn curious eyes drift up the stone steps.
‘Out of bounds,’ Mrs Potts says sternly, not even looking back to see where I’m looking. I realise now why. That’s his apartment up there, where he stood and watched me in his grand hall. I mentally slap myself for fleetingly wondering what he must have thought seeing me here. ‘Here we are.’ Mrs Potts ushers me through another doorway, and I find myself in an enormous traditionally appointed kitchen, with an old-fashioned range cooker and a grand old table and huge, solid wooden chairs in the middle. ‘I’ll make tea. Take a seat, dear.’ She fills a kettle and pops it on the gas stove.
I head to the table and sit down, then watch Mrs Potts as she faffs around the kitchen. I jump a mile when something wet touches my leg, smacking my knee on the underside of the table as I do. ‘Ouch. Bloody hell, what is that?’ I jump up and scamper back, frightened out of my skin.
‘Language, dear,’ Mrs Potts says, giving me a disapproving glower. Completely composed, she approaches and crouches, looking under the table and extending her hand. ‘Come on, boy,’ she coaxes gently.
I frown and bend to see under the table, and it’s only a few moments until a wet nose appears. ‘Aw, look.’ I join Mrs Potts in her crouched position as a big furry beast emerges.
‘Meet Winston,’ she says, a proud edge to her tone.
‘He’s so cute.’
‘And nervous. You have to gain his trust.’ Mrs Potts scratches his ears roughly, and I laugh as he nuzzles into her hand, grumbling deeply as he does. ‘He’s Becker’s best friend.’
Best friend? His best friend is a dog? ‘A British bulldog?’
‘Yes, dear.’
I put my hand out and Winston sniffs tentatively, clearly unsure of me. ‘Hey, Winston,’ I say quietly, moving my hand up to his ears. He recoils a little, unsure, but soon edges forwards again. It takes a few minutes of gentle coaxing, but he eventually allows me to scratch his ears, then a few minutes later, he’s right up close and rolling on to his back, paws in the air. I laugh and give his belly a rub.
